The Girls of Chequertrees. Marion St. John Webb
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h'm … yes—anyway, we can talk the matter over together and wire by this afternoon," said Mr Heath.
"This is my address," said Mr Sigglesthorne, handing Pamela a thumbed and dog-eared visiting-card on which was printed: "Joseph Sigglesthorne, Fig Tree Court, Inner Temple, London." "And now, if you will kindly excuse me, I must hurry away, as I have other visits to pay this morning."
Mrs Heath invited him to stay and have some refreshment before he went, but he declined, saying that he must lose no time in informing the other young ladies of Miss Crabingway's invitation. So shaking hands all round he departed, leaving them not a little perplexed.
No sooner was he gone than Doris and Michael burst into the study, anxious to know what the queer little old man's business with Pamela could be. They were soon told all about it, and read Miss Crabingway's letter with much curiosity.
Doris, who was a year younger than Pamela, was as unlike her sister in looks as she was in temperament. Doris was pale, very pale, with very fair hair and eyelashes, and light blue eyes. She was inclined to be pessimistic and over-anxious about most things, and lived up to this reputation on the present occasion.
Michael, with handsome features, an infectious laugh, and chestnut-coloured hair (like Pamela's), was nothing if not optimistic; he and Pamela were always getting sighed over by Doris because of the levity shown by them over things which Doris considered "too important to be laughed at." But to-day Michael's optimism seemed to have suddenly deserted him, and he put down Miss Crabingway's letter in silence.
Pamela was watching his face anxiously. "What do you think about it, Michael?" she asked.
"I don't know. I suppose it's all right. What do you think about it yourself, Pam?" he said. ("Six whole months! And only a few miserable post-cards! Whatever was old Miss Crabingway thinking of!" said Michael to himself.)
"After all, it's a very simple matter," said Mr Heath. "Pamela to look after Miss Crabingway's house for six months. There's nothing in that. Six months' rest from her studies won't harm her, and she can keep up her sketching and take some books with her.... It'll be quite a holiday."
"It's only those restrictions about not being allowed to see any of us—and—and that curious mention of a locked door…" said Mother.
"Ah, yes! I don't like the sound of that at all," said Doris, shaking her head.
"Oh, come now—it may be only her private and personal belongings she's put in that room," said Mr Heath.
"It might be, of course," said Doris, in a tone that implied that nothing was more unlikely.
"Of course that must be it," continued Mr Heath (from whom Michael and Pamela inherited their optimism). "Miss Crabingway wouldn't want all those strange girls upsetting her personal things.... And remember the fifty pounds—it'll be most useful for Pamela. But still, you must decide yourself, Pamela, what you would rather do."
"I don't want to go—and I do—if you know what I mean," said Pamela.
They understood what she meant. But the matter had to be decided immediately, and so they all sat down and began to discuss it from each and every point of view, until at length, after much hesitation, Pamela made up her mind to accept Miss Crabingway's invitation.
Later in the day she and Michael walked round to the post-office and sent off the wire to Barrowfield; and Pamela also sent the signed paper off to Mr Sigglesthorne.
During the next few days Pamela lived in a state of excited rush and hurry. There seemed so much to be done, so many friends to see and say good-bye to; so many clothes to get ready and pack; so much shopping to do; and then there were a hundred and one odd jobs that she meant to attend to before she went away, and never got time to see to any of them after all. Everybody seemed very kind and anxious to help her as much as they could. Even John and twelve-year-old Olive begged to be allowed to help, and proposed that they should take a hand at packing Pamela's trunk. Olive, indeed, could not be persuaded that her help was not needed until she had been pacified with the gift of Pamela's glove-box and a scent satchet to keep for herself. That was always the easiest way to divert Olive's ambitions—make her a present of something you didn't want and she quickly forgot what she had been clamouring for a few minutes earlier. John, who was two years younger than Olive, was the 'baby' of the family in name only. John was sturdy, noisy, and emphatic in all he said and did—and was not so easily put off with gifts. He would accept the gift and then go on asking for the other thing as well. Fortunately he was not so insistent on helping to pack as on being allowed to sit on the lid of the trunk to squash it down when it was full and about to be locked. This little matter was easily arranged, and when everything was quite ready he was called in, asked to be so obliging as to cast his weight on to the top of the trunk—which he did with great alacrity—and the trunk was locked in triumph.
On the Monday night Mother came into Pamela's bedroom and wished her an extra good-night.
"Be sure to come home if you are unhappy, dear. Or if you are ill or anything—let me know—and bother the old fifty pounds," said Mother. "Promise me, Pamela—or I shall be so unhappy."
So Pamela promised. "But I'm sure to be all right, Mother, and you're not to worry about me at all, dear. But do take care of yourselves, all of you, till I come back."
Pamela said good night quite cheerfully, but after her mother had gone downstairs again she found that she did not feel cheerful a bit. She began to think things like "This is the last time I shall sleep in my own little room," and "This is the last time I shall hear Michael whistling on his way upstairs," until she made herself cry. Then she scolded herself for being so silly, and fell asleep.
CHAPTER III
BERYL
When Pamela alighted at Barrowfield station on the Tuesday afternoon daylight was beginning to fade and a fine drizzling rain had set in. She gazed round the deserted platform, and gave a shiver as a chilly little breeze rustled past her, stirring the loose bits of paper on the stone paving and making the half-closed door of the General Waiting Room creak dismally as it pushed it farther open. Pamela had been sitting for an hour and a half in the train, and she felt cold and stiff and suddenly depressed. She was the only passenger to get out at Barrowfield, and the only living soul about the place as far as she could see was a porter, who now came strolling down the platform and took charge of her luggage.
"Where to, miss?" inquired the porter; and his voice at once reminded Pamela of the voice of a man who used to come round selling muffins in Oldminster, and this made her conjure up an instant's vision of home and Mother and Michael and all of them sitting round the fire while Doris toasted muffins for tea. It was a ridiculous thing to think of at this moment, but she could not help it. How she wished she were at home, toasting muffins.... But the man was waiting.
"Miss Crabingway's house, Chequertrees," she answered. "Is it far from here?"
"'Bout a mile an' 'arf, Chequertrees is," said the porter.
"Oh, dear," said Pamela. "Well, can I get a cab or anything?"
Before the porter could reply the sound of heavy footsteps was heard on the wooden floor of the station entrance, and the next moment Tom Bagg hove into sight. Of course Pamela did not know what his name was then, though she knew it well enough afterward; you could not help knowing it if you stayed in Barrowfield more than a couple of hours, because Mr Bagg was a local celebrity. However, all Pamela knew at present was that a fat, burly man with an enormous waterproof cape and a waterproof hat stood before her. Here was the very person she wanted—the Barrowfield cab-man. He touched his hat with a fat forefinger.
"Evenin', miss. Ascuse me, but are you the young lady for Chequertrees?" he asked.
When Pamela had informed him that she was, he told her that he had had instructions from Miss Crabingway to convey her and her luggage from the station.
So Pamela got into the welcome cab outside, and was driven away through the dusk. She could not see much through the blurred and steaming windows, and the little she could make out appeared to be all hedges and trees. Presently she could feel that the cab was going downhill, then the pace slackened and it seemed